Usually in rainy weather I just pretend that I’m back in London, where my black shoes, black pea coat, and black umbrella fit in with the rest of the passersby. They were all immune to another rainy day. The street market covered up the newspapers and the owner stayed inside (I missed saying good-morning to the wrinkly old man with blue eyes and a warm smile). The tube stations were a little more crowded, and there were more taxis driving by as I looked right-left-right to cross the streets.

But as John and I drove through the suburbs, I realized that it wasn’t London and this weather was a lot more serious than a puddle in the road.. Baseball fields were suddenly small lakes, roads and driveways were submerged. A husband toted a bag and the cat carrier, as the wife carried the baby on her back as they waded knee-deep in water where their front yard was supposed to be.

All I could do was repeat the lyrics of a Joe Purdy song, “I love the rain the most / when it stops”